


The Careful Undoing of Sirius Black

by BeyondStarlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, M/M, Suicide mention, Transgender, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-02-01 18:12:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12710250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondStarlight/pseuds/BeyondStarlight
Summary: It’s a pity that Sirius thinks him most beautiful like this, when his eyes are hard and burning, and his lips are drawn into a thin line to hold the curses on his tongue. Severus' chest rises and falls in shallow breaths underneath the shimmering nightgown. Perhaps, someday, someone will see him when he is whole, and think him beautiful; but for now, while Severus is still falling apart, there is at least Sirius to bathe in the glory of it.





	1. The Nightgown

**Author's Note:**

> This work was not beta-read, and I'm not native English. If you spot any mistakes, please tell me. Otherwise, enjoy the story!

“What are you doing?”

There is an untangling of legs and arms. A sudden coldness rushes underneath the blanket, chasing away the after-sex heat of two bodies still merged together. The bed creaks along with each movement, and Sirius idly wonders whether it might one day fall apart in the middle of a tryst.

“I’m cold.”

“Then come back here.”

He shifts impatiently. The sweat on his back has cooled, and the buzzing heat in his chest has dulled. He watches Severus edge towards the large wardrobe. There are fingertip-sized bruises on his hips and a bitemark between his neck and shoulder that still bleeds.

“The clothes in there are my mother’s.”

“Were,” Severus corrects him, because of course he would. Sirius rolls his eyes.

The closet is opened, and the scent of his mother’s old perfume wafts through the room. He stretches his arms out and settles on his side, careful not to let old memories take shape behind his eyes. Severus picks up something, using only his index finger and thumb, as though it may prove dangerous.

“It’s her nightgown,” Sirius says. The memory of her wearing it isn’t very clear; he just knows. It has a deep blue hue in the morning light, but in the wee hours of the night, it is just black. It looks foreign in the bony, veined hands of Severus. Then he says, “Put it on,” although he’s not sure why. He’s not sure why Severus complies either.

Maybe it satisfies some inner rebellious teenager of him, to see his mother’s clothes worn by the man he just fucked (in her bed, too). Maybe it’s some belated, useless form of payback. Merlin knows she wouldn’t care about his sodomies, but to have her gown tainted by a half-blood, therein lies the real atrocity.

Severus is wearing his mother’s nightgown.

His back is bare, his hips lightly embraced by thin satin. In the glow of candlelight, his skin is pale golden, dotted with birthmarks and marred with scars. His feet are bare, toes white and blue on the cold marble floor.

Sirius is seized by the desire to touch him. Not like he just did. Not the nails digging in skin, the pulling of hair, the urgent skin-against-skin contact that he can blame on 12 years of crippling isolation. He doesn’t know where this urge comes from, or what he is supposed to do with it. His mouth opens before he can stop himself, but when Severus’ eyes catch him in the reflection of the mirror, he knows that whatever words had sprouted from the depths of his chest, they were not going to make it to the surface.

“You look like a girl.”

Those black, beady eyes turn away again. For a moment, he thinks Severus will say something back – something clever and mean that would have annoyed him if Severus’ voice wasn’t still husky. Instead, Severus just stares at himself in the mirror.

“Are you going to come back?” he asks impatiently.

Severus’ reflection glares at him, but he turns around and slips back underneath the covers when Sirius raises them. His skin is cold as ice. Sirius runs his hands over Severus’ arms, which are covered in gooseflesh, and then moves to his chest. His fingers glide over the cool fabric. He almost says something about it, about the gown, but then he remembers that there’s only so much he can say before Severus leaves. It’s already been a while since Severus stayed the night. Reflexively, he puts an arm and a leg over him. One of the benefits of putting on weight is that he can pin down a scrawny man like Severus while asleep. There’s a muffled sound of protest, but it doesn’t take the shape of words, so Sirius closes his eyes and falls asleep before Severus can annoy him into speaking.

\--

There’s a lot of trauma to take home from Azkaban. Loneliness, nightmares, and paranoia being the obvious ones. Those are also the ones that everyone understands. Remus has no problem spending time with him when he can, Tonks will slip him some mild sleeping draught if he asks nicely, and Kingsley keeps him up to date on whatever fake lead the Ministry has fallen for. Still, there are some things they simply can’t help with.

Waking up is one of those unexpectedly heavy pieces of luggage he took home from prison. It is more than a year since he regained his freedom, yet every morning, in the haze between sleep and wakefulness, he is back there. Every morning, he can feel the hard, stone ground underneath him, before it softens into his sweat-soaked mattress. Every morning, he can hear the ocean waves breaking against the rocks, before they deafen into the constant ticking of the old clock on the wall. Every morning, he can taste the salt in the icy air, until the nauseating warmth of the rooms breaks through.

But lately, he wakes up to the taste of hair in his mouth, the sound of muffled snoring, and two cold feet pressed against his shins.

There are many things that Sirius never knew, and never cared to know, about Severus. That he likes to sleep in whenever he can is one of them. The way he looks, one would think he gets no rest at all, yet here he is, curled up tightly against Sirius, and by the sound of it, fast asleep.

He would get up, and leave the snoring bastard to wake up alone, but there is nothing to get up for. They only do this on the loneliest of days, when the emptiness of Grimmauld Place is so loud it rings in his ears. His fingertips run lazy circles through Severus’ hair, and he wonders why he comes here. There’s plenty of people to amuse himself with at Hogwarts. There’s plenty of reasons for him to avoid Sirius. Yet here he is.

It’s nearly eleven when Severus stirs. From experience, he knows that it takes about thirty minutes for him to go from the first stir to actually getting up. Unless there is morning sex.

“Hey Snape.”

The latter turns his head so that it’s buried in between Sirius’ chest and the pillow.

“Hey. Wake up.”

There’s a grunt of which Sirius knows the meaning very well, but each time he still asks.

“What?”

“Hmm Hmm.”

“What?”

“Hmmmmmmm. Hmmmmmm.”

“What?”

Severus turns his head back. His eyes are barely open but already glaring. “Fuck you.”

His voice is still husky, and softened with sleep. His head drops again, and he sighs deeply. The frown between his eyes smoothens, and he looks as though he has fallen asleep again. If Severus would have had the strength to keep his eyes open one second longer, he would have seen the painfully fond smile on Sirius’ face.

“Hey Snape.”

“What.”

“What’s the most traumatising thing you’ve ever been through?”

“It’s talking to me right now.”

“What’s the most traumatising thing you’ve ever been through?”

Another sigh. It’s a very efficient technique, to repeat a question until the desired answer presents itself. Severus still looks as though he might be asleep, but his voice grows a little steadier with each reply.

“I’m not sure whether you want me to leave, or whether this is your idea of foreplay.”

“Do pre-coital conversations turn you on?”

“Please never talk to me again.”

Severus can be quite funny, if Sirius can get himself to stop taking offence. He’s exceptionally skilled at changing the topic too.

“So, what’s the most traumatising thing you’ve ever been through?”

“Adolescence.”

“I’m assuming you don’t mean the acne.”

Severus actually glares at him for that. Ooh, touchy subject. There are still scars from it on his cheeks. Sirius reaches over, and runs his thumb over them, but Severus turns his head and buries his face in the pillow.

A while ago, Sirius thought it better like this, when he couldn’t see his face. Now, however, there is no part of Severus that isn’t clearly Severus anymore. There’s no pretending that the man next to him is some stranger. The fantasy has worn off, and so has the desire for it to be anyone but him. Sirius moves his hand further down, and stops on Severus’ hip, where he draws lazy circles.

For a long time, neither move from this position. Sirius watches him while daylight begins to spill into the glum little room. The bedsheets are pale rose, the pillows ivory, and the morning light a pearly white. They are in great contrast with Severus, whose skin is sallow and dark, his hair and eyelashes black as the night, and the nightgown he wears almost blue.


	2. Chapter 2

The sex hurts. It’s hard to tell whether it’s a good kind of pain or not. It’s just about the hurting, sometimes. He imagines it is worse for Severus. They fuck like animals. Like they get off on how much they hate. Not hate one another – not in that moment, at least – but there is a mutual, unadulterated madness. They both harbour an urge to claw and bite and shove and fuck, and all is allowed under the pretence of desperate hate-sex.

He doesn’t think he can have regular sex anymore. Sometimes, he manages to convince himself that it just takes the right person, and for time and trauma to pass. But when he lies here, in his mother’s bed, with Severus falling asleep underneath him, he knows he can’t fool himself.

It’s hard to believe that the quiet, sleeping man in his bed is the same one that writhes and swears and fights so gingerly. Such a peaceful sight – the slow rise and fall of his hairless chest, the parting of his moist, swollen lips, and the slowly warming touch of his fingers. To think that Sirius has come to call him a greedy, insatiable whore in his private thoughts is almost absurd. In his defence, the unflattering nickname is, for once, not meant to be unflattering. It came to him as a raw thought, without prompting.

There are imprints of his nails in Severus’ skin. They are bright red on his soft cheeks, buried between acne scars. He reaches for the marks, but halfway through the motion he changes his mind, and runs his fingers through Severus’ hair instead.

Severus sighs deeply, almost contently. There’s a fresh wound on his lip where Sirius bit him hard enough to draw a cry from him. He leans forward, and, without thinking, kisses it.

“What are you doing?”

Severus’ eyes are open, clear and sharp. Even from up close, it is barely possible to tell iris from pupil.

“I wanted to see whether you were pretending to be asleep or actually asleep.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

Sirius smirks. The idea of being caught in a lie never frightened him.

“We can’t all be naturals.”

Severus makes a face that says _fuck you_ , and turns around. When he begins getting up, Sirius grabs him.

He meant to say _don’t leave_ , but instead he says, “Are you going to put on the nightgown again?”

There’s no mocking tone in his voice. Severus slows down just enough for him to know that this night doesn’t have to be over yet.

“It’s on the chair, there.”

There’s an odd glint in Severus’ eyes, and curiously enough, he stands up and picks it up again. In a swift motion, he slips it over his naked form. They both look at him.

Over the past few months, Severus slowly changed. If it weren’t for their clandestine tête-à-têtes, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. He wonders whether maybe Severus is always slowly changing himself, in unnoticeably small steps, leaving behind little ghosts of himself in people’s memories that never entirely match up with who he currently is.

His hair has grown past his shoulders. It’s lanky and oily and Sirius can’t look at it without wanting to intertwine his fingers in it. Despite his angular face and bony frame, there is something distinctly feminine about the way he carries himself. His arms and legs are thin and elegant; not the clumsy, spidery figure he once was. His skin has paled, as it does in winter. Underneath the January sky he looks almost white, but now, with only the flickering candles to light him, he is dark-skinned, and his protruding bones draw sharp shadows over him.

“There are stockings in there too, in one of those drawers.”

In the reflection of the mirror, Severus’ eyes shift, now pinned on him.

“Do you have some weird fixation on fucking your mother?”

“Not in the literal sense of the word.”

“I don’t want to be a part of your parental issues.”

“Don’t worry, you’ve got an entire section of issues dedicated to yourself.”

His response is nothing more than an eloquent than a huff, but Severus opens the drawer nonetheless. A pair of thin, black stockings is carefully removed, and then even more carefully pulled over his bluish feet, and then his legs. Sirius sits up. He wants to touch – nothing more. It’s the same urge as before, and he wonders why it comes back a little more stubbornly each night. They already touched. They fucked. Hot hands on sweaty skin. So why does he want to feel thin fabric and gooseflesh underneath his fingertips? He taps his fingers impatiently on the bed, trying to dispel the sensation.

Severus’ beady eyes watch him in the mirror. The silence stretches. They both wait.

In the wee hours of the morning, and with the after-sex sweat still clinging to him, there is preciously little space for thought. The childlike desire for touch doesn’t fade; it tingles sharply underneath his skin.

“Come here.”

It sounds like a command. Severus turns around slowly. The candlelight dances on the thin satin. He shivers, but there is a challenging glint in his eyes nonetheless.

An odd thought crosses Sirius’ mind. It’s almost as though they are playing a game of mother-and-father. A game in which Sirius is the father – the hand that hurts, the voice that demands, the empty words. And Severus the mother – the skin that bruises, the silence that speaks, the watching eyes.

“I said come here.”

His voice is too loud and impatient for the time of the night. When Severus doesn’t move, he shoves the sheets aside, and steps out of bed. Severus steps back, bumping into the wardrobe. His skittishness makes Sirius feel powerful in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. The newly kindled excitement sizzles through him, merging with his desire to touch. If he can’t hold someone without holding them down, so it be.

\--

There are teeth marks in his bottom lip, and the longer he studies them in the bathroom mirror, the more he can tell Severus’ crooked teeth in them. There are bruises on his upper arms where Severus pinched him, and scratches on his chest that match the ones on his back.

Sirius remembers turning his head in the middle of the fight, and catching a glimpse of them in the mirror. It was a glimpse of broad shoulders and arms pinning down a twisting and writhing shape. A glimpse of thin legs, draped in stockings, trying to kick, and slipping on the marble floor.

He won, too. Severus. Had punched Sirius in the throat so that he couldn’t breathe, and then dragged him onto the floor. The wood had creaked and moaned heavily underneath his weight. Before he knew it, Severus had climbed on top of him, and before he could stop him, fists came down on his face. Afterwards, Severus had put his hands on his throat, blinded by a rage that was neither caused by nor meant for Sirius. Only when Sirius managed to kick him off, and Severus hit his head against the corner of the nightstand, things came to a halt. His thin frame shook with the force of his own anger, which then suddenly evaporated. Without another word, he left.

Sirius runs his fingertips over the hot, swollen side of his face, and down the bluish line over his throat.

\--

Neither are surprised when Severus comes back three nights later. It is two in the morning, and he looks like a wreck. The circles underneath his eyes are black, his movements are snappish, and his voice clipped.

“What the fuck is that smell?”

It’s a rhetorical question. The smell is old sweat, and it’s always there. Sirius hasn’t showered in a few days. The bedsheets are stiff where they aren’t sticky. In the middle of it lies Sirius, naked, and with the grace and posture of someone in a bed of feathers and gold. He holds an old book in his hands, the print faded and the edges frayed. Severus takes a moment to watch him, and the lack of commentary surprises Sirius, pleasantly so. He smirks, and closes the book.

“Like what you see?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Someone’s in a bad mood.”

The words are light, but his tone is not. The smirk has disappeared, and the book has been put aside. Severus stands rigidly in the opening of the door.

“Put on the nightgown,” he says.

When he speaks like that, he hears his father’s voice in his own mouth. Deep and low and commanding.

He can tell, by now, that Severus wants to wear the nightgown. Even like this, before the sex, when the hatred is still fresh and sizzling in his bones. There is a faint trembling in his hands while he undresses himself.

“The stockings too.”

He pats on the bed, and Severus sits down. In a smooth motion, he slides his hand onto Severus’ thigh, down his knee, and gently guides one leg onto the bed. He rests his hand back on his inner thigh, where he draws slow circles with his thumb.

Maybe he doesn’t have to be like his father. Or his mother. Maybe he doesn’t have to have hard hands and hollow words. Severus is no longer watching him, but staring fixatedly at the hand on his thigh.

“You shaved your legs.”

His voice is softer now, even if it’s only a little. Severus doesn’t move. He curls and uncurls his toes, which are barely visibly through the stockings. Without thinking, Sirius leans forwards. There is no such thing as “without thinking” around Severus, of course. The latter tenses entirely, even if he doesn’t move away. It’s a green light, sort of. They don’t really speak in yes’s and no’s.

Sirius leans in a little more. He kisses the little scar in the corner of his mouth, which he left there days ago. Severus’ jaw is set tightly.

“Kiss me.”

“I didn’t come here to be kissed.”

In a brisk move, he pushes Severus down. The resistance is feeble enough – a cold hand pushing against his chest, and kicks that miss their aim. He straddles Severus, and pins his hands above his head. It’s a pity that Sirius thinks him most beautiful like this, when his eyes are hard and burning, and his lips are drawn into a thin line to hold the curses on his tongue. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths underneath the shimmering nightgown. Perhaps, someday, someone will see him when he is whole, and think him beautiful; but for now, while Severus is still falling apart, there is at least Sirius to bathe in the glory of it.

Sirius leans forward and gently kisses his cheek, his jaw, his neck. He frees one hand, still holding Severus down with the other, and cups the latter’s face. It’s barely a kiss. Their lips brush over one another, and they both hold their breath. Then he presses his lips more securely against Severus’ ungiving mouth. This doesn’t have to be different from a real kiss, he thinks. There are plenty of girls and boys he kissed, long ago, almost like this. He can go back to normalcy, to harmless kisses and tongues and touches.

A sharp pain cuts through his lip. He withdraws briskly, hovering quietly over Severus. A drop of blood falls from his lips onto Severus’, and their eyes remain locked as the latter slowly licks it off. There is a ravenous, utterly immoral glint in his eyes, as though the devil himself is looking up to him. _You greedy, insatiable whore_ , Sirius thinks. But, this time, the thought comes with utterly exasperated fondness. He leans forwards again, tasting the metallic hint of his own blood, and kisses Severus with the fierce desire of a madman in love.


	3. Chapter 3

Severus is the last one to leave the meeting. It doesn’t look as though he lingers – it never does, of course. Severus is too skilled at pretending.

When the door closes behind Kingsley, the house grows eerily quiet. Without an abundance of heads and voices, Grimmauld Place shows just how forgotten and forsaken it is. It is easily as unbearable as Azkaban. The quietness is dispelled by the soft clinking of a teaspoon in a teacup, coming from the kitchen.

“Snape.”

“Black.”

He is preoccupied with some tome he must have nicked from the Black library. The opened pages show a drawing of a heptagon, and a list of requirements. Dark Arts, from the looks of it. Sirius is ignored when he approaches the table, but less so when he puts his hand in the middle of the page, and pecks Severus on the lips.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“They’ve all left.”

Severus looks at him for a long moment without replying, and then back down at the page which Sirius is still obscuring with his hand.

“I was reading that.”

“Why won’t you kiss me?”

Before he speaks Severus licks his lips, very quickly so, as though he had not meant to do it.

“I don’t kiss.”

Sirius arches an eyebrow, but Severus has managed to lift a finger from the sentence he was reading, and takes little notice. He has a small and tight mouth. A few months ago, he’d have a 5 o’clock shadow every now and then, and occasionally a more defined stubble. It didn’t work for him; it grew in patches, like moss, and made him look as though he was permanently hungover and about to beg someone for change. Now his cheeks and chin are smooth and hairless.

“You don’t like it?”

“I don’t _do_ it.”

His voice grows more impatient. They are both bad at small talk, and it usually ends poorly. That doesn’t stop Sirius from trying.

“We’ve kissed.”

“Then what are you complaining about?”

“I mean without all the damn fighting. Just a kiss.”

“If you want to hold hands and make out you should ask Tonks and her oversized pet if they’re up for a threesome.”

“Leave them out of this.”

“Whatever.”

Severus is childish. Sometimes more so than Sirius, which is an accomplishment of its own. He has given up on reading the page, and has started on the next one instead.

“I just want to know why you’re against it.”

“You can’t have everything, Black.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. There is a tightness about Severus that he doesn’t understand. He takes his hand off the book, and Severus immediately pulls it closer. Very briefly, the urge to throw it off the table surges. Instead, he rubs his neck. Severus flinches when his hand goes up.

“I’m literally just asking for a kiss. We’ve done worse things than that.”

“We’re not in a relationship.”

“I know that! I’m not proposing to you, for goodness’ sake. Do you have some sort of commitment issues?”

A pause. Severus remains perfectly still for a moment. He is tense, and Sirius can't tell whether he is overthinking or not thinking at all. Is there a sea of thoughts drowning him in badly-repressed hatred, or has everything already quieted down to pure, unfiltered madness? Or perhaps Severus knows yet another state of being, one that is no less torturous in nature than the other two.

“If you want to kiss and make out and have anything of this without all the damn fighting, then find yourself someone else." His voice is cool and collected, but his jaw is set and his eyes are unwavering. "I’m not here for that.”

“But you _do_ kiss, even if you first have to bite.”

It’s Severus who shoves the dome of the table. Papers are scattered in between them. A pot of ink spills onto the floor. “Go fuck yourself!”

Sirius grabs Severus by his collar, forcing him closer even as the latter tries to claw him in the face.

“Why do you have to be like this?”

His voice is not just louder and sharper than he intended, there is also a very tangible despair in his voice. He shoves Severus against the wall, ignoring the cold hand that has found its way around his throat.

“Get yourself someone else!”

Those words spark a violent anger in him. It surges through him like electricity, and his body moves before he can think. He hits Severus in the face. The sound of skin-against-skin resonates through the kitchen.

The hand in his hair withdraws briskly, and the nails digging in his throat are gone. Severus’ expression twists into something he can’t place for a second. Fear. He tries to back away against the wall, and instinctively Sirius pulls him closer again.

“Let go!”

"Stop it!"

Severus tries to jerk his hand away, but Sirius holds him tightly and jerks him back. The more he tries to wring himself out of the grip, the more frantically Sirius holds onto him, until he pins Severus against himself and the wall.

“Let go!”

His voice is high and shrill. He twists and claws and breathes in short, wheezy breaths, but Sirius only pushes him harder against the wall.

“Stop it,” he hisses. “I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

He roughly brushes his free hand through Severus’ hair, and cups his face. When Severus tries to shake him off he digs his nails into his cheek to keep it still.

“Let go!”

Severus’ voice breaks. There’s a sharp stinging in Sirius’ wrist where Severus tries to pry his hand away. They’re chest against chest and Severus is shaking.

“I said stop it!” Sirius shouts, and the words ring in his own ears.

Severus stops moving. The cold fingers loosen around his wrists. Only the shaking continues. His breaths are shallow and pitched, chest moving rapidly against Sirius’.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

With one hand, he carefully strokes over Severus’ cheek, and brushes away the thin, wet trail of a tear. Severus makes a chocking sound, but swallows it, and then remains silent. He doesn’t look at Sirius.


	4. Chapter 4

Three months pass. There is no sign of Severus. The lonely nights are just lonely now.

It’s a sweltering September night, around five in the morning, when the creak and slam of the front door rouse Sirius from a restless sleep. He tiptoes downstairs. An alcohol-induced headache burns against the back of his eyes, and he can still taste the cold, salty sea air from his nightmares on his tongue. Still, it is impossible to mistake the spidery figure in his living room for anyone but Severus Snape.

Whatever happened in those three months, it clearly left its marks. Severus looks like a shadow that detached itself from its owner. His skin is sickly, almost translucent, and the fierce hatred in his eyes has dulled to an empty stare.

“Don’t touch me.”

It’s only natural, when hearing those words, for Sirius to want to touch even more. He takes a step forward, cornering Severus against the wall and the couch. The latter doesn’t step back. There is something cold and uncaring in his expression.

“If you touch me, you’ll never see me again.”

It’s a funny threat. Sirius would’ve given anything to touch him on those conditions, once. He knows he once wished Severus would just die. He shrugs, and steps back. “Whatever.”

Severus comes unstuck from the rigid position he stood in since being seen. His movements have become more shaky and brisk again. Without another word, he sits down on the couch, and pulls his legs up.

When Sirius sits down next to him, he goes entirely rigid again. “Don’t touch me,” he says.

“Then what did you come here for?”

The question is left unanswered. Severus takes something out of his pocket, and then another thing, not unlike a cigarette.

“What’s that?”

Severus lights it, and takes a long, deep drag, as though he was waiting for just this all day long. After a pause, he exhales again. The smoke rolls from between his lips and out of his nose.

“Weed.”

“You smoke weed?”

“Of course not,” he says coolly. “That would be irresponsible.”

Sirius watches him closely. His fingers are bony, and tremble ever so faintly around the end of the blunt. His clothes hang off of him worse than they usually do. And yet, in an odd way, his face seems to have softened. His cheeks seem to have rounded, despite the weight loss, and his brow and chin are not as gravely defined as before. With his legs curled up against him, and the tip of the blunt reflecting in his beetle-black eyes, he looks almost like a child. An overgrown, haggard child with yellowed fingertips and chapped lips that haven’t been kissed in three very long months.

“I’m getting you a blanket.”

There are no protests to that, although that may just be due to the slowly smouldering blunt. He digs up a heavy, woollen blanket and drapes it carefully over Severus, who doesn’t move.

“Don’t-”

“Yeah, yeah, no touching. I get it.”

Sirius sits back down, but not without picking up yesterday’s half-empty bottle of whiskey. There’s just enough space between them so that they’re not touching, and he ignores the fleeting thought of putting his arm around Severus and drawing him closer. He is always cold, after all. Instead, he rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, and then picks up the bottle again to take a sip. He wonders whether it’s too early to drink yet, or whether he can still count this as a continuation of yesterday’s mistakes.

“Want some?”

It’s Severus who offers. The blunt is held between them, and Sirius briefly wonders if he’d be allowed to touch Severus’ hands for that. He shakes his head.

“I think the alcohol’s doing enough damage to me as it is.”

With the exception of alcohol, he never did any drugs. He might have wanted to try them, before Azkaban, but James was an athlete, and he would’ve had a breakdown if his other half did something so self-destructive. Now that he is out of Azkaban, it is his very own choice not to try drugs. He heard the stories, especially those about the bad trips. At least with alcohol, he knows the effects.

A little belatedly, he extends his bottle to Severus, and sloshes what little content there is left.

“You want some?”

“I don’t drink.”

Sirius snorts, and wonders whether the irony of it is lost on Severus. The tension has left the latter's figure some, and his eyes no longer follow each and every movement of Sirius’. For a long while, they just stare blankly at the empty fireplace. The only light in the room is the tip of Severus’ blunt and the fractured moonlight spilling in through the window.

“So, um.” Sirius taps his fingers on his thighs. The silence grates on his nerves. For the past few months, or years maybe, he has been living from visit to visit, with endless spans of silence in between. He licks his lips, words tumbling through his head, but none of them feel quite right. Then again, nothing between them has ever been quite right, has it? So he supposes it doesn’t really matter in the end.

“Have you ever been through something really traumatising?”

Severus doesn’t reply immediately. Then, slowly, he says, “I’m on some kind of weekly subscription.”

“But you never went to Azkaban, did you?”

“No.” The corner of his mouth twitches, as though he almost wanted to smile, but his eyes remain devoid of any joy. “I managed to avoid my one-way ticket.”

The glowing tip has reached the butt of the blunt. Severus takes a deep drag before burning his fingers, and dropping it on the floor. Sirius steps on it before the carpet can catch fire.

“Shit. Sorry.”

The apology catches Sirius off guard. He never thought Severus capable of it. At least not so easily, so casually.

“It’s an ugly carpet anyway.”

Despite the blanket draped around him, Severus shivers. Sirius fumbles for a moment with his wand, but then manages to light a fire in the hearth.

Time begins to pass again, and Sirius’ words have petered out. There are some topics which should spark some reaction, but he is afraid the reaction might be Severus taking his leave. A shared silence is still better than a lonely one, he supposes. By the time he finishes the bottle, small sip by small sip, Severus’ eyelids are fluttering.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

“No.”

“Just to go to sleep.”

“No.”

“I won’t touch you.”

“No.”

“Come on,” Sirius says. The couch creaks when he gets up. The overgrown, haggard child watches him through vacant eyes, still curled up in the corner of the couch. Sirius gestures for him to get up. Severus still flinches at the motion of his hand; it's less obvious than it used to be, but it's still there. Sirius rubs his hands consciously. “Get up,” he says, a little softer this time.

Very slowly, Severus stretches his legs, and then rises from the couch. Technically, Sirius doesn’t touch him, but he can’t help but put a steadying hand on Severus’ back, with the woollen blanket in between. They make it up the stairs, but as soon as they enter Sirius’ bedroom, Severus turns around again.

“I don’t want to.”

“Just sleep. I won’t touch you, okay. See, I have my hands up.”

Bad move. Severus flinches again. He tries to give him a foul look, but it lacks the burning of a true glare. Sirius slowly puts his hands down again, muttering an apology under his breath. Reluctantly, Severus lies down. His mouth is tight, and his bony hands shake ever so slightly.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You want to sleep alone?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Sirius tucks him in, taking care not to touch him, and then turns around.

“Where are you going?”

His voice is drowsy, and maybe just a little too soft. Sirius’ hand hovers over the doorknob, but he looks behind him nonetheless. The still figure in his bed is no man, but a child, and this time the child is neither overgrown nor haggard, merely very tired and very quiet and very small in the large, empty bed. Sirius’ chest feels tight, and a few seconds pass in which he holds his breath.

“I thought you wanted to sleep alone?”

Severus watches him, curled up underneath the blankets like he’d curl up against Sirius’ side long ago. Very slowly, Sirius opens the door, but Severus doesn’t say anything anymore. He leaves the door ajar, just a little bit, and leaves the light on in the hallway, and then leaves his own door open as well. Slowly and mechanically, he lies down in his own bed. The scent of his past overwhelms him. It’s been over thirteen years ago since he slept here.


	5. Chapter 5

“Don’t touch me!”

Severus writhes in his grip. It’s almost the way it used to be. It would be, if it weren’t for those three words. There is a panicked tone in his voice that didn’t used to be there. It’s been a full week of don’t-touch-me’s. Whether it’s Sirius’ own fault, or something that happened in the gap of three months, he can’t tell. He can’t ask either. Severus is too much of a master at not answering questions.

Just for a moment, and no longer, he considers ignoring the words. It’s not as though the choice is really Severus’, at this point. Sirius has him pinned down on the bed, straddling him, and holds his hands above his head. It’s almost the way it used to be. Almost, but there’s no point in fucking like this. Not when they’re the ones fuelling each other’s hatred.

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

The sound of Severus’ shallow breaths unsettles him. He keeps wanting to tell him what he already said before – that he didn’t mean to hurt Severus, and still doesn’t. He just wants to go back to the way it was before. The fight-and-fuck nights were good enough. They were more substantial than whatever they’ve settled for now.

The heat still hasn’t returned to Severus’ eyes. They’re cold and hard. “You want me to leave?”

Sirius huffs, and shakes his head. “I’m just asking you why the hell you keep showing up if you don’t want anything.”

“Like what? A beating? And then being fucked, as an afterthought?”

“Piss off.”

He lets go of Severus’ hands.

Wasn’t that exactly what Severus used to come for, though? They fought. They fucked. And then they spent the rest of the night in each other’s arms, pretending that that made everything okay. It wasn’t meant to last, they both knew that, but Severus had been the one holding on to it, in the end.

Sirius sighs and rubs his eyes. After a moment of hesitation, he shifts, and moves, so that he no longer sits on Severus, but next to him. “Maybe you _should_ leave.”

For a moment, neither speak or move. Sirius’ chest feels tight. He doesn’t know what he will do if Severus leaves. He doesn’t know what he will do if Severus stays.

“If you’re just here again to wake me up in the middle of the night and get high, then you might as well do it somewhere else.”

Severus sits up quietly. The thought of him leaving sends a wave of nausea through Sirius. The prospect of complete loneliness drains him, even though Severus is still there. They both remain perfectly still. Stiffly, as though his mind and body are disagreeing over what he should do, Sirius raises his hand, and gestures for Severus to go away.

“Go,” he says. It’s been thirteen bitter years since he last cried, but he knows that if the door closes behind Severus tonight, it will come as naturally to him as it did before Azkaban. Maybe that counts for something too.

Severus doesn’t move. He just sits there, as though he hasn’t heard the words at all.

Downstairs, the clock chimes. It’s six in the morning. The early summer light is already creeping into the room. The curtains, which once kept dawn out of the room, have torn and fallen somewhere in the space of the three lonely months. They still lie in a pool underneath the window, adding to the slowly rotting heap of Grimmauld Place.

Sirius stares at Severus, who remains where he is, as though frozen in time. In the thin, silvery morning light, the world is reduced to black and white. Severus is a dull grey. His hair is one black mass, which has grown to his chest. His bony shoulders and elbows poke through his oversized white shirt and black robes, drawing sharp shadows over the excess fabric. It’s been a long time since he wore the nightgown.

Times comes unstuck when Sirius moves, slowly reaching for Severus, and gently cupping his cheek. With his thumb, he caresses the thin grey lines of acne scars. Severus remains quiet, watching him through his black, unwavering eyes. Very slowly, Sirius leans in, waiting for those three words, or a shake of the head, or anything. Before he knows it, they are kissing. Severus’ lips are thin and chapped. They move hesitantly against his own, as though unused to the delicacy of the act.

They withdraw slowly. It feels clumsy and slow and uncertain – a first kiss re-experienced. Severus inhales shakily. Around them, colours are slowly seeping back into the world, and the first sunrays peek over the horizon. A smug smile tugs at Sirius’ lips.

“Was that your first kiss?”

“No.”

The smugness peters out. There’s nothing particularly defensive about Severus. Sirius just wasn’t the first one. It bothers him more than it should. They’re not teenagers, after all. They’re in their late thirties, for goodness sake. But it doesn’t feel that way. No matter how many times he repeats it to himself, Sirius can’t grasp that he’s almost forty. He still has one foot in his twenties – careless, reckless, and so ridiculously happy despite the war – and one in a time-gap of twelve years. He wonders suddenly what Severus did during all those years. Whether, once he was outside of Hogwarts, he met someone. A Death Eater, maybe. Someone who kissed him, and touched him, like lovers do. Someone who didn’t have to beat him before fucking him. But wasn’t that what Severus had wanted?

He studies Severus’ hands, which fumble with his sleeves. His cuffs hang loosely around his wrists. His nails are dirty. Are a Potion’s Master’s nails supposed to be dirty? Then again, is Severus still a Potion’s Master outside of Hogwarts’ walls?

He clears his throat. The silence makes him uncomfortable. Bad talk is better than no talk, in his book. “I thought you didn’t do kissing?”

“Maybe. Sort of. In a way.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know.” Severus shrugs. Master at deflecting questions. Stubborn as a mule.

Sirius raises his eyebrows.

“What’s the most traumatising thing you’ve ever been through?”

The question sounds odd, coming from Severus. Sirius rolls his eyes, and leans back against the headboard. He feels tired. Maybe there is no escaping the end. Maybe he should leave, and then Severus will leave too. This should have ended long ago. But he was in love, back then, or at least he likes to think so. It’s better if he can blame his actions on some kind of trauma-driven love. Yet, even now, he knows he won’t leave. He can tell Severus to fuck off all he wants, but he can’t make himself stand up and leave. If it is going to end, it will be Severus who leaves.

“Well?”

“Azkaban.”

Obvously. There were a handful life-threatening scenarios before that, but they all paled. Paled? They became fucking blissful in comparison. Thrilling and dangerous. Being on the brink of death makes one feel so incredibly alive. In Azkaban, the concept of life and death fades into a soulless continuum, even if he technically still has that little bit of pure, concentrated life force in him. It had the funny side-effect of making his worst memories oddly pleasant. He could live with seeing Pettigrew escape, because, in that memory, he was still free, and brimming with emotion.

“You were there for 12 years.”

“Which adds to the fact that it was a traumatic experience.”

“Nothing specific happened? Was it just one monotonous, ongoing trauma?”

“Time is not a concept, in Azkaban.”

If someone would tell him he spent a year there, he would believe it. If someone told him he spent 50 years in there, he would believe that just the same.

Severus watches him closely. “You’re very unwilling to answer this question.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Did it feel good to be out?”

“At first, definitely.”

“And now?”

“Sometimes I,” he pauses. How does he say that he is haunted by the feeling that he never quite left Azkaban? How does he explain that at any given time, he will suddenly be overwhelmed by the fear that he lives in some despair-induced hallucination, and will wake up to the endless, grey enclosure of walls and sea?

Severus pulls up his knees and wraps his arms around them. “You can’t go back.”

“I don’t want to go back-”

“Not back to Azkaban. I mean that you can’t go back to the time before Azkaban. You can’t go back to not having been there. It fucked you up, and you just have to live with that. Don’t try to make things be like they were before Azkaban.”

Sirius huffs. “I’m not trying to go back in time.”

“You are. When the others are here, you act like you’re still some idiotic teenager, only now it’s one with a drinking problem.”

“I don’t!”

“You’re fucked up, okay?” Severus snaps. “Stop trying to go back to a version of yourself that wasn’t fucked up, because if it ever existed, it doesn’t anymore.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes still pinned on the wall across from them. His thumb runs absent-mindedly over his forearm. “Some spots don’t come off. You just have to move on and learn how to live with it.”

Sirius quells the fleeting urge to touch Severus. He licks his lips, and takes a deep breath. “Well, how does one go about moving on and learning how to live with it?”

The anger dissipates from Severus’ face. He turns to Sirius, and a smile ghosts over his lips. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”


	6. Chapter 6

“This was a terrible idea.”

“This was the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Severus gives him a pointed look. He has his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his mouth pressed into a thin line – the image of disapproval. The resemblance with a young Peter, who often voiced his doubts about the more tasteless jokes of their youth, is striking.

“We should go back.”

“Are you kidding me? We just got here.”

Sirius knows that his wide grin isn’t doing him any favour, but he can’t help it. The scowl on Severus’ face deepens, and he looks as though he might go on a lengthy rant any moment. The memory of Peter’s (and occasionally, but more rarely, James’) rants resurface from his memories as clear and vivid as ever. Irresponsible, morally questionable, dangerous outcomes, they should have grown out of this by now. A little bit like what a teacher would say, but it sounds different from a friend’s mouth. A teacher, after all, ought to say these things. A friend only says it if they mean it.

Then again, Severus _is_ a teacher. The realisation takes Sirius aback. He looks him up and down, unable to imagine the lanky little man before him at the front of a classroom. A teacher! Ridiculous. Severus, who wore a girly, semi-transparent nightgown in a fistfight (which he won, no less). Severus, who spent last night smoking weed until he couldn’t form a coherent sentence, and then passed out gracelessly in Sirius’ arms. A true role model, indeed.

“In my experience,” Severus says, merrily unaware of the train of thought he just interrupted, “My ideas have never had particularly good outcomes.”

“Technically,” Sirius says, mimicking Severus’ stick-up-the-arse posture and tone, “We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Technically,” Severus drawls, in a mockery of Sirius’ mockery, “I’ve just brought a convicted fugitive into a school full of innocent children.”

Sirius rolls his eyes theatrically. “Oh, yes, because _that’s_ the full truth.”

“Obviously it’s a blatant lie,” Severus mutters, and he pinches the bridge of his nose like he does whenever he is about to get a headache. “There is nothing innocent about those disgusting little bastards, but we all know no one likes to hear the truth.”

Sirius snickers, and then slowly shakes his head. “You must make for an amazing teacher.”

Severus gives him a sharp glare for that remark. Another touchy subject? For someone who seems so unfit for the job, and who dislikes children (and people in general) so strongly, one would think that he couldn’t possibly take pride in the job.

“I thought you would have an insight on my amazing teaching skills through your beloved little Potter.”

Definitely a touchy subject.

“Well, Harry thinks you’re a piece of shit anyway, so I wasn’t sure how that would reflect on your teaching abilities.”

It is no secret that Sirius performs poorly in the think-before-you-speak department. Every once in a while, however, his reckless talking earns him a mysterious smirk from Severus. It is quickly masked by a sigh.

“The point remains that you should not be here.”

“Come one,” Sirius nudges him. “I even dressed up for the occasion.”

Severus arches an eyebrow, not unlike Professor McGonagall would. His eyes then travel up and down over Sirius, the most displeased expression on his face. “You mean you showered?”

Oh, how the tables have turned.

“Hey, I put on my nice clothes!”

His nice clothes, indeed. A muggle T-shirt which became a lot tighter than it was about fifteen years ago, and wide, baggy pants that Lily once convinced him were fashionable. He never believed her, the snorting-upon-sight being a dead giveaway, but they were, and still are, too comfortable to give up.

“You could have at least worn robes.”

“Fuck robes. Pants are nice. You should try them some time.”

The glares are becoming alarmingly frequent now. Sirius has to remind himself that he is already on thin ice.

“Just admit it, you think I look really hot.” He flashes Severus one of his charming smiles, which, of course, is counter-productive.

“I think you look like you’re desperately trying to retreat into a more youthful version of yourself, and that being in Hogwarts is only making it worse.”

Undeterred by Severus’ cold remarks, Sirius grins. “You’d still shag me behind the snake statue.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “The ‘snake statue’ is called _Salazar’s Noblesse_ , and they moved it so that the back-side of the base isn’t routinely coated in spunk anymore.”

“That’s disgusting,” Sirius says, sounding far more amused than is appropriate. “What else changed?”

His question isn’t answered immediately. For a few seconds, Severus remains quiet. He is very still, unnaturally so. Sirius forgets that Severus is not the same man he is at night. At night he shrugs and hesitates and changes his mind halfway through a sentence. His eyes dart away whenever he’s serious, his fingers fidget restlessly, and, despite his efforts, he burns himself on the last drag of every joint. During the day, he becomes more mechanic, and a little less human. He is always tense, but during the day all that tension is coiled tightly around his insides, buried under measured motions and weighed words. That’s probably why he smokes himself into a coma once the sun has gone down, and all the prying eyes have gone to sleep.

“Come on,” he says, more softly. “Can we just sneak up to the Astronomy Towers? There’s no one there, usually.”

“Usually,” Severus begins with a snarl, “There’s a pair of morons up there who think the moonlight will make their hormone-fuelled screwing meaningful and romantic.”

Sirius barks out a surprised laugh. “Honestly, I’d love to see you teach. How much swearing do you get away with?”

Severus gives him a tired look. “I’m not allowed to swear in front of students. I have to use boiled-down version of insults, like dunderheads.”

“Dunderheads!” Sirius rejoices. “That’s an adorable way of saying shitheads!”

“Listen.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll cast a Disillusionment Charm on you, and then you can follow me around. We’ll go to the Astronomy Tower and back. But you will be right behind me.”

“Of course! I promise.”

“Your promise means nothing to me,” Severus comments dryly. Then he throws a ring at him, which Sirius catches before it can hit him in the face. It’s a plain, metallic ring, engraved with a few runes on the inside. Severus puts on a similar one. “If these rings are more than a few meters apart, you will be fully paralysed. It only works one way, so don’t think about trying anything funny.”

Sirius puts it on, admiring it on his otherwise ring-less hands. “Admittedly, I had imagined your proposal to be more romantic, but I guess this will do.”

Severus opens his mouth to say something, but then chokes on his words, and turns a nice shade of pink. Instead of making some scathing remark, he takes a few steps back, and before Sirius can put two and two together, he is on the floor, unable to move, looking up to an unimpressed Snape.

“You were saying?”

_Nothing, you smug shithead._

Severus leisurely steps over to him, as though he has all the time in the world. The numbing tingle running through Sirius’ body begins to fade, and he curls his fingers experimentally. With his heavy boot, Severus carefully tilts Sirius’ head so that they are facing one another. Sirius grins, and then places a delicate kiss on the tip of Severus’ boot, watching the latter closely as he does so. For a moment, and no longer, Severus’ lips part slightly, and his eyes are bright and ravenous, as they once used to be.


	7. Chapter 7

**THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN PARTIALLY EDITED.**

**IF YOU HAVE ALREADY READ IT, PLEASE REREAD IT.**

**No major changes have been made, but I daresay this version of events is a little more pleasant.**  
**Some parts have remained unchanged.**  
 **You can still read the next chapter without rereading this one, if you prefer not to reread this one.**

\--

The Disillusionment works like a charm. Despite many impulsive urges, Sirius manages to stay a few steps behind Severus at all times. It surprises him when the students hush and make way for Severus as they pass. It’s hard to tell whether they are respectful or afraid.

Here he is, back in Hogwarts. Instead of the thrill he expected, he feels oddly disappointed. The castle walls are familiar, certainly, but everything else is not. The hallways are filled with unfamiliar faces, and he realises that he won’t see James here, or a young and still sweet Peter, or even one of those damnable Death Eaters in-the-making. The realisation that he’d wished to go back to _his_ Hogwarts settles heavily on him.

They pass a large window, through which Sirius can see the Forbidden Forest. He slows down just a little bit to admire the shimmering reflection of the sunlight in the lake. One tree in particular catches his attention – it is the one by which he and his friends once pantsed Snape. And now Snape is here, sneaking him into Hogwarts. And James is dead, and Peter should be dead, and Remus is going to marry some young lass. And Sirius?

Sirius is rigid with a pang of magic, which runs over him like a bucket of cold water. He collapses quietly on the floor. With his nose pressed against the cold, tiled floor, he watches how Severus abruptly stops. As soon as he takes a few steps back, the numbing tingle in his body fades, and his body is once more his own.

“My bad,” he mutters. Severus turns around briskly. His lips are pressed into a tight line, but the anger quickly makes way for alarm. With a fluent wave of his wand, the Disillusionment Charm slips back into place. Without another word, Severus spins on his heel, and briskly continues walking, forcing Sirius to quickly get to his feet and run after him. They slip through a narrow hallway, and climb the steep, spiralling staircase that leads to the top of the Astronomy Tower.

Icy gusts of wind greet them as they step out into the cold. Severus braces himself, and turns around to close the door behind them. His eyes search for the deformities in the air, which give away Sirius’ presence. With a flick of his wand, Sirius dispels the charm.

“What are you doing?” Severus hisses, whipping out his wand. Sirius catches the tip between his fingers, stifling whatever innocent charm or hex was about to break out of it. There is a brief pause, during which Severus stares somewhat dumbfound at the confident hand holding the other end of his wand. In that short moment of opportunity, Sirius leans forward to place a butterfly-kiss on Severus’ cold nose.

“You know why everyone keeps coming back to fuck here, right?” he says, before Severus can put together a scathing remark. “No one can see us up here, and the echoes of the staircase give away when a teacher is approaching.”

Severus’ mouth opens, and then closes again. A tired expression mixes in with the annoyance. “I hope you realise how easy it is to muffle footsteps. Anyone can climb up this tower without being noticed.”

“Why would teachers let students know that they’re coming?”

“No one wants to walk in on horny pre-teens.”

“That’s fair.”

Sirius leans forward, and presses another kiss on Severus’ nose, which earns him a disapproving glare. “Come on, Severus,” he purrs, “We’re the horny teenagers in this scenario.”

Severus closes his eyes, no doubt trying to forget what he just heard. “This was a terrible, terrible idea,” he mutters to himself.

When Sirius leans in for a third kiss, he is swatted away like a fly. He grins, stupidly fond of Severus, despite the latter’s devotion to being an unromantic prick.

“You’re cold,” he says softly, and wraps his arms around Severus. A dispassionate shrug is the only protest. When Sirius presses him closer, Severus sighs, but he doesn’t swat away the kiss that follows.

Sirius’ hands travel lower over Severus’ body, until his thumbs rest on his hips, where he massages small circles. It’s been a long time since he kissed someone like this. The heat of it runs through his body, and pools in his abdomen. There is a split second in which Sirius fears his erection will scare Severus away. It is quickly dispelled when Severus grinds his hips against him, giving away the hardening of his own cock.

For a moment, he imagines that he is still sixteen, and so is Severus, and they are no more than two randy teenagers who can’t help wanting to snog and shag every time the others turn their head.

Severus’ icy fingers run around his sides and up his back, his nails sending shivers down his spine. “If you want to fuck,” he whispers, his voice pleasantly breathy, “Then quickly so. I have a class to teach in fifteen minutes.”

He looks away while speaking, a bright blush tinting his cheeks. Sirius chuckles, and when Severus glares at him for it, he leans in and places a chaste kiss on his forehead.

“I said fifteen m-”

Severus’ sentence is abruptly cut short when Sirius grabs his arm and swiftly turns him around. He pushes him against the half-wall that stand between them and a long, lethal fall.

“I heard you just fine,” he breathes into Severus’ ear, and then gently bites his earlobe. Severus gasps and eagerly arches his back, pressing his arse snugly against Sirius’ erection. Without hesitation, Sirius curls his arms around him, and runs his hands underneath Severus’ robes, underneath his shirt, until he can feel the warmth of his skin. His broad hands travel over the planes of Severus’ hips, over his belly button, his ribs, and his hardened nipples. He carefully rubs them with his fingers, making Severus shudder against him.

He closes his eyes, caught up in the scent of herbs and old clothes and fresh sweat. “I missed you,” he whispers, stupidly honest. Severus doesn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t hear him. There’s no “shut up”, no “you can’t have everything, Black”, no “Don’t touch me”. Maybe silence is the best answer.

\--

Severus has to teach that damnable class. He must have picked up on Sirius’ mood, because he proposed, with plenty of internal struggling, that Sirius could stay in Severus’ chambers if he didn’t want to go back to his place yet. Considerate shithead.

So, here he is, locked up in Severus’ private chambers. It’s not too bad. Despite his initial and honest promise not to snoop through Severus’ belongings, the first ten minutes of boredom prove to be stronger than his willpower. Except for gay porn magazines (tasteless and old), a bag of weed (big surprise), and a well-hidden stash of muggle candy (talk about blackmail material), there is nothing of interest.

In Severus’ bathroom, a large mirror rests against an otherwise empty wall. It’s a most unpleasant discovery – the light flickers on and suddenly he is face-to-face with himself, from head to toe. At the very least, the lack of a sharp, rude remark lets him know that it’s a muggle mirror. The sharp, white light brings out the bags underneath his eyes, and every wrinkle and crease in his skin. His stubble is gross, his hair dull and shapeless, and his sharp jawline has hidden behind a layer of fat.

Merlin, he gained weight. His shirt is ridiculously tight around his belly, which is peeking out underneath. His pants look like they’ll tear if he squats. Goodness, maybe Severus was right. Maybe he is trying too hard to go back. He looks like some pathetic old man with a midlife crisis.

It’s halfway through his bout of self-depreciation that he notices the way the mirror is attached to the wall. His fingers run across the side, and with a simple pull, the mirror opens, revealing a large cupboard behind. Initially, he is disappointed. They’re just clothes. He is about to close the mirror-door again when he freezes, and slowly opens it again. He plucks a rumpled piece of cloth from the ground. It’s black, light, semi-transparent – the nightgown.

A displeased voice startles him.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you while you ransack my personal belongings.”


	8. Chapter 8

**\- CHAPTER 7 HAS BEEN UPDATED.  
** **(No major changes have been made, but for those who are enjoying the story, I would still recommend rereading the last chapter.)**

**\- The tags have been updated as well. If you have any triggers or squicks, please check them again.**

**\- This is the final chapter, thank you very much for the lovely comments, they've made me feel great and inspired me to write more.**

**\- Final POV is Snape POV, enjoy~**

\--

Severus can tell immediately that the bastard has rummaged through his belongings, as though it is the most natural thing on earth. How typical. He shouldn’t have expected anything less, and in all honesty, he didn’t.

Severus finds the bastard in his bathroom, but it seems that he has yet to take notice of his return. It’s an old habit by now, or so Severus justifies it, when he creeps closer and quietly peeks into the bathroom. That the mirror would enthral Sirius is no surprise. Despite wearing a shirt that even a teenager would look bad in, and pants at least two sizes too small, he still manages to look good. The tight clothes make him look more massive and stronger than he is, and the thin fabric over his back displays every muscle nicely. Not to mention his arse.

That’s the unfair part, isn’t it? Despite being an alcoholic with questionable hygiene, Sirius Black has good genes. In the mirror Severus can see, as clearly as he sees it in his memory, Sirius’ plump lips, his gleaming eyes, his dimples. And poor old Snivellus has tried all he can, but his genes say “ugly git”, and everyone else regularly confirms it for him.

And then Sirius reaches for the side of the mirror. Severus’ heart misses a beat. His first instinct is to snap some vehement remark at him, and yet, no words come out of his mouth. Severus holds his breath for a few seconds, watching as Sirius looks into the cupboard, before his body can move again.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you while you ransack my personal belongings.”

Sirius jumps. There is no doubt as to what that means: Guilty as charged. The pointed look Severus receives in turn makes him swallow his rant. Sirius holds up the nightgown.

“You mean _my_ personal belongings?”

Technically, he nicked it, but in his mind, it doesn’t count as theft. Although he’ll never say it out loud, he views it as a sort of gift (which Sirius may not have been aware of giving). One day, Sirius will get fed up with clumsy kisses, just like he’d gotten fed up with rage-fuelled sex. One day he will be a free man again, and his dashing looks and irresistible charm will get him anyone. Severus will become yet another memory he’ll be desperate to repress. And then Severus will have, at the very least, the nightgown – a memento to add to his collection of people who found someone better.

But now Sirius claims it’s his. Fine. Severus doesn’t need anything from him either way – certainly not a keepsake.

“My sincerest apologies, I’ll make sure never to touch _your_ nightgown again.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Sirius rolls his eyes and throws the flimsy gown at Severus. “Why are you always going from one extreme to another?”

“Well it’s either yours or mine, isn’t it?”

Sirius snorts, although there is no joy in his face. There is a moment of silence before he speaks, and when he does his voice is a little too soft to be as indifferent as it tries to be.

“It could be ours.”

Severus looks down, fidgeting with the weightless fabric in his hands. It can’t be theirs. It has already become a premature reminder. A souvenir of the past that is still the present.

Sirius will find someone else. Someone who doesn’t dine with the Dark Lord. Someone who doesn’t need to get high at night just so he won’t kill himself. Someone who doesn’t want to wear dresses and stockings and heels because sometimes he wants to feel like a lady. Be a lady. What a joke.

He is still holding onto the nightgown. The cool satin glides through his fingers. It smells of old feminine perfume, of Sirius’ body pressed against it, of Severus’ bathroom floor.

_It could be ours._

\--

“What are you doing?”

Severus’ voice, soft with sleep, carries quietly through his room. The air is cold, and the wind can be heard howling through the hallway behind the door. It chills his nose and cheeks and makes his bare skin tingle when he sits up straight. He is wearing the nightgown.

“I can’t sleep.”

Severus pulls the sheets tightly around him. The scent of firewhiskey and sweat still slings to them, and he nuzzles his nose into it.

Sirius is pacing back and forth through the room. There are scratch marks running down his back, and a bright red bitemark on his shoulder. He pauses and looks at Severus. In the whitish light, he looks haunted. Pearls of sweat cling to his forehead, and he wipes them off with an unsteady hand.

“Come back here.”

Slowly, as though he might fall, Sirius sits down on the edge of the bed. Severus touches his arm, and then hesitantly rests his hand on Sirius’ shoulder. It is tense and wet with sweat.

“They’re just nightmares,” Severus mumbles, unsure of what else he should say.

“What if they’re not? What if they’re reality and this is just a dream.”

Sirius tries to laugh, knowing how paranoid he sounds. His face is grey and his hands are shaking.

Severus gently guides him down, and Sirius lets him. They settle against one another, with the slow clumsiness of half-asleep men. Sirius hides his head in the nook of Severus’ neck, and his forehead burns against Severus’ cold skin.

“You’re hot.”

“I feel like shit.”

Sirius buries his head a little further, and wraps his arms tightly around Severus. They stay like that for a while.

In the ghostly white light, Sirius does seem like a dream. He is made of thin, wispy lines, catching on his long lashes and the sweat on his upper lip. He looks far too frail to feel so warm and heavy in Severus’ arms.

“You should’ve gone home,” he mutters, not sure whether Sirius can still hear him.

His eyes open, and in the dark, his eyes are just as black as Severus’. Only they are large and beautiful and quiet. “I don’t have a home,” he answers. Then, after a pause, he adds. “I _am_ home.”

Severus places his hand on Sirius’ forehead, and then runs his fingertips down his cheek. “Hogwarts isn’t a home.”

A faint smile plays on his lips, and he kisses Severus fingers as they passes over his lips. “I didn’t mean Hogwarts.”

Severus pulls his hand away and pretends his cheeks aren’t flustered. Perhaps he should have said something – something unnecessarily rude and scathing, as he does best. The words are dispelled when Sirius grins. His smile is wide and makes his eyes gleam.

Maybe it’s fine. Maybe Severus will suffocate among Death Eaters while Sirius rots in Grimmauld place. They will find one another between that, both eager to escape into one another’s arms. Maybe Severus will burns his fingers with blunts and Sirius his mouth with whiskey. It could have been worse. They might even try to become better men one day. Maybe Sirius thinks Severus makes just as beautiful a woman at night as he makes a man during the day.

Severus leans in and presses a chaste kiss on his forehead.

“I missed you too," he mouths against his hot skin, quietly hoping the words will melt through his skull, and settle among his dreams and nightmares.

\--

\--

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_This was the last chapter, I hope you enjoyed this story.  
I want to thank everyone who took the time to write a comment, you have motivated and inspired me, and have made me far happier then you can imagine._


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